


Research and Development

by sgam76



Series: Scheherezade 'verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ableism (past), After Sherlock's escape, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Caring John, Circa HLV, Donovan's a twat, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John's smarter than he looks, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Positive aspects of autism, Sherlock Does His Research, Shooting recovery, hospital recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: The medical staff at Kings' have given Sherlock a drug that's dangerous for people like him, and John is justifiably cross. But hearing John give them a dressing-down in Sherlock's room makes the detective realize that (1) John knows something he's not supposed to know; and (2) one of two people must have broken faith with Sherlock to tell him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Scheherezade 'verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/559688
Comments: 68
Kudos: 143
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Research and Development

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGracefulBlueCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/gifts).



> This is a gift for the lovely TheGracefulBlueCat, who gave me the core of this idea in addition to having done some lovely artwork for my fics over the years. She's been going through a hard time lately, so I also hope this lifts her spirits a bit.
> 
> Written as my submission for the Sherlock 10th Anniversary collection.

Sherlock didn’t understand why John got so concerned about these things. Granted, hallucinations were likely something that all medical professionals viewed with a jaundiced eye. And it wasn’t something that Sherlock wanted to experience on a regular basis; if nothing else, dealing with luminescent blue fairies and sentient frogs in one’s hospital room made it difficult to retain any aspect of professionalism. Tough on the image.

But it had been an interesting break from the seething boredom of convalescence, and it was over now. Well, mostly. The one frog still peeked out from under the bed now and again. But he was a polite little fellow, and wasn’t doing any harm.

But John—John was having none of it, and had called what seemed like every nurse and attending physician on the floor into the room to give them a Captain Watson dressing-down.

“I _told_ you,” John barked, pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “Multiple times. I made extra-sure his records were clearly marked, after our last little misadventure with this kind of thing. I spoke to the nursing supervisor; I spoke with his surgeon. And I asked, quite politely, I thought, that any new meds were to be discussed with me first, unless it was an emergency. So I ask you: was this an emergency?”

A host of dispirited heads shook.

“Were you unable to contact me? Did you _try_?” John continued, snarling just a bit.

Headshaking again.

“Then can someone explain to me why this patient was administered a drug without any of those precautions—a drug which had him spending his afternoon talking with fairies and fucking _frogs_ , when in fact what you administered for an episode of migraine has been noted as contraindicated in autistic patients for a fucking _year_?” John said, in a deep, threatening tone.

The assembled medical ranks muttered apologies and looked studiously at the floor. But Sherlock—Sherlock felt his mouth drop open in a combination of horror and shock. The frog peeked from under the bed and made a concerned little sound, but Sherlock was no longer paying much attention. Because this was— “calamity” wasn’t a strong enough word. It was _insupportable_ , and Sherlock really didn’t know how he was going to bear it. He made an involuntary jerk, thoughtlessly trying to flee the room, and pain detonated in his chest. John looked up as several alarms went off, hurried over to push Sherlock gently back into place, and hit the control on the morphine port. As his eyes slid shut Sherlock thankfully lost all interest in the conversation.

That didn’t mean he forgot. He did delay spending time on thinking about it for several days; a stubborn fever kept him too miserable to do much beyond listen to music on John’s headphones or sleep. But on the fourth day he awoke clear-headed, anxious and (though this part needed to be kept from John) furious. The only question was, whom should he be furious _with_?

The first suspect showed up, as usual, that afternoon. (It was a rotation, apparently: John was away for two hours each afternoon, and that time was filled by a steady progression of minders. First Mycroft, then Lestrade, then Molly, then Gabe Austin* or Anthea, then Mrs. Hudson. Each brought their own form of “entertainment” with them, which Sherlock tolerated with varying levels of scorn).

“How’s tricks?” Lestrade asked, as usual. He was nothing if not predictable in his false cheer. Despite Sherlock’s relentless whinging, the man had yet to bring him a single cold case file. All he brought was himself and, typically, a deck of cards which were used primarily for games of two-handed (well, one hand and one tray table) poker. He had declared it his mission in life to teach Sherlock to bluff without making an obvious “I Am Bluffing” face. It was not going especially well.

“Close the door,” Sherlock snapped. He would have said it more forcefully, if he’d been able. As it was, he was reduced to a whispery baritone that couldn’t usually be heard further than the doorway of the room. John insisted it would get better; Sherlock tried to believe him.

Lestrade blinked, but did as he was told before dropping his things on the chair next to the cot and reaching to hand Sherlock a cup of water, insisting he drink it before doing anything else. “What’s wrong?” he asked, when Sherlock had reluctantly complied.

“Well may you ask,” Sherlock sneered. “I want to know when you told him.”

The policeman blinked again, being intolerably dense.

“If you intend to say anything along the lines of ‘told whom’, I may throw something,” Sherlock warned. Not that he could throw anything very far, but he’d certainly give it his best effort.

“I was gonna go with ‘told him what’, actually,” Lestrade said mildly. “What’ve you got yourself all worked up about now? ‘S not good for you, lad.”

“Neither is betrayal,” Sherlock said bitterly. “And yet it’s happened.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re on about,” he said flatly. “None whatsoever. And I have never ‘betrayed’ you in my life, so far as I know.” He paused, thought about that, then continued, rather bravely. “Except the once. And you know how I felt about that.” Sherlock did, actually—the older man had made Sherlock sit through the entire, agonized apology.

“But you promised you’d never tell anyone,” Sherlock said, holding a hand to his chest to contain a twinge as he forced the words out. “It’s…you _promised_.” He was fairly sure that betrayal hurt more than his chest.

Lestrade made a little “oh” of enlightenment. In his time with Sherlock he’d only made two such promises. One—the drugs—was a moot point, since pretty much everyone now seemed to be aware of Sherlock’s somewhat lurid past in that area. The second—

“I didn’t, Sherlock,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “I wouldn’t. A promise is a promise. The only way I would have told him would be to keep you safe, and that never came up. It was pretty clear he already knew, years ago.”

Sherlock was aware that something strange was happening to his face, as he realized the implications of that. Lestrade moved forward and put a hand on his forehead worriedly.

“Oi, what’s wrong, then?” he said. “Why are you so upset?”

“I never thought he’d do that,” Sherlock said, aware he wasn’t being terribly coherent. “He…I never thought.”

“He _who_?” the policeman said.

“Never mind,” Sherlock managed, and closed his eyes.

The next two days were somewhat misty; Sherlock was aware of people talking above him, asking for his attention, trying to get him to eat, to move, to recognize their existence in any way. John was somewhere in that mix, but Sherlock couldn’t…just couldn’t.

After an indeterminate time, the mist was abruptly penetrated by a sharp pain to his earlobe. He slammed back into awareness with a familiar face looming over him—unfortunately the face he had the least desire to see.

“What is all of this in aid of?” Mycroft asked, settling back in the chair beside the bed. “You have everyone quite alarmed.”

“John called you,” Sherlock said dully.

“Of course he did,” his brother said. “You’re frightening people. They were concerned that you were falling into a severe depression.”

Sherlock would have laughed if laughing weren’t currently painful. “Fancy that,” he said.

“The question is, why?” Mycroft continued, as if Sherlock hadn’t said anything. “Clearly you are reacting to upsetting news. But John insists that nothing of the kind has been imparted, and none of your other ‘playmates’ are aware of anything either.”

“So he called in the cavalry,” Sherlock said. “Which, under the circumstances, is rather ironic.” He closed his eyes again, only to be startled by another tweak to his earlobe—less painful this time, more a warning.

“Look at me, brother,” Mycroft said sternly. “This must stop. Open your eyes and tell me, quite clearly, why you are distressed and I will do my best to put it right.” Because that was Mycroft did, wasn’t it? Fixed things.

The silence dragged on. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked, aware that the source of his… _unhappiness_ would likely have no idea why Sherlock was so bothered by this.

“You are upset because of something I did?” Mycroft said, with what only Sherlock would have recognized as uncertainty. “I am unaware of anything that would have caused this reaction, Sherlock. My scope for involvement in your life is fairly limited at present, given your situation.”

Suddenly Sherlock had had enough of this. “They gave me a new drug a few days ago. I had an adverse reaction. Had hallucinations for most of the afternoon. John was quite cross.”

Mycroft gave a little smirk. “I heard,” he said. “Fairies and frogs, wasn’t it?” A glimmer of true amusement shone in his eyes.

Sherlock glared. “And once John realized what had happened, he called in every medical person within a 5-mile radius and gave them a bollocking. In my room. In the course of that he questioned why they had administered a drug that had been identified as contraindicated for non-neurotypical patients. Since he had apparently discussed that with the staff.” He paused, suddenly aware his throat was closing. “And that means he knows about me, about my…He knows. So someone told him.” He paused again, aware that his brother would see his distress but unable to stop. “Lestrade didn’t—I asked. So that leaves you.” He was mortified by the small warble in his voice, and hoped his intensified glare would offset the effect.

Mycroft’s mouth actually dropped open. Under other circumstances, Sherlock would have wished for a camera. As it was, though, it simply added to his confusion.

The older man shook his head. “I didn’t, my dear. I would never, without telling you I was doing so and why. I wouldn’t. Even though I find your being so secretive about this unnecessary and ill-advised.” He put a hand gently on Sherlock’s, gave it an awkward comforting pat. He was very bad at comfort, Mycroft. But he did try, now and again.

Sherlock found he was blinking, and that there had been a gap in his awareness—Mycroft was sitting back in his chair, waiting with every appearance of patience, though that was clearly deception on his part. Sherlock wrestled his tumbling thoughts under control and finally managed to speak.

“But if that’s the case, how did he learn?” he asked, avoiding mention of the lapse in mentation. “When? I certainly never told him, and as far as I know the only medical records John ever saw had no mention of it. I made sure of that years ago.”

“And you know how I felt about that,” Mycroft said with a frown. “But as to John’s knowledge—I’m sure you need to ask him. I can tell you that none of my staff are aware, save for Anthea. I am fairly certain Mrs. Hudson knows, but the only way she would have told John would have been inadvertently.” He fidgeted in the uncomfortable plastic chair, frowning. “I do wish you would put some thought into letting go of this, brother. You give a word entirely too much power over you.”

“Says the person who was never affected by that ‘word’,” Sherlock snapped. “Now go away.”

Mycroft, predictably enough, ignored him, settling back in the chair and opening the book he had been reading to Sherlock. “Should we pick up where we left off?” he asked, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken.

Sherlock tried to cross his arms across his chest, failed when pain exploded at the first touch to his torso, and dropped them back to his side with a huff of irritation. “Fine,” he said.

Sherlock, well, _brooded_ for the next couple of days. He was still weak enough that sleep took up a considerable portion of the day, and his rotation of visitors meant an additional chunk of time when John wasn’t there. Sherlock needed a bit of time to collect his thoughts (and, regrettably, his emotions), and come up with a script for having a rational conversation about this issue. The last thing he wanted was to do so with his nerves lacerated in addition to his transport being catastrophically weak.

Of course, all his careful planning was for naught. Because, as usual, his mouth ran ahead of his brain—well, the higher functions of his brain, to be precise—and blurted out The Question as soon as John walked in with the breakfast trays the next morning.

“When did you find out?” trundled out of his mouth first, replacing the generic comment on breakfast that had been planned. That was followed immediately by “how did you find out”? which wasn’t a bit helpful either.

John stopped, put the breakfast trays down carefully, and turned to give Sherlock that blandly bovine look he sometimes wore when confused. “What?” he said, which Sherlock could have predicted.

“Last week,” Sherlock managed, trying to grab the edges of the script he had carefully crafted, which was now fraying rapidly. “When you yelled at everyone for being stupid.”

John laughed, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I was a bit angry. Not watching what I said.”

“Not my point,” Sherlock said. “They deserved it. But what you said.” Again, he wanted to writhe at his own stupidity, since his brain was now actively interfering with his mouth.

“Yeah?” John said, in a leading tone that was meant to be encouraging but made Sherlock feel like he’d been slapped. John _knew_ how much he hated being coddled.

“You said…my records…the medication wasn’t for…people like me,” Sherlock finally managed on a gasp.

“Well, no,” John said. “And they didn’t follow any of the protocols we’d established. That I thought we’d established, anyway. I also had a word with your surgeon, who wasn’t much happier than I was.”

“My records,” Sherlock snapped. “That was never in my records.” He hoped to God John understood, since he couldn’t come up with any remnants of his script and was now essentially in mental freefall. He could hear his pulse rate rising on the monitor.

“What? That particular medicine?” John asked. “Well, no, because it never occurred to me that someone wouldn’t _check_ before they gave it to you. I mean, your records are quite clear.”

“That’s just it!” Sherlock barked. “My records!” He was getting a bit breathless now. The heart monitor was growing rather agitated.

John moved forward, in a motion Sherlock could see was a precursor to hitting the damn morphine pump again. “No, wait!” Sherlock said. “We need…I need to know.” He forced himself to relax back into his pillows, trying to slow his heartrate by force of will. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“No, you’re not ‘fine’,” John grumbled. “Very far from ‘fine’, in point of fact.” But he sat back in the chair and prodded Sherlock’s breakfast tray towards him.

Sherlock took several deep (well, deepish) breaths before continuing. “I need to know when you found out I was…like that,” he said, in a somewhat strangled tone. Sherlock couldn’t meet John’s eyes—to see pity there would kill him outright, he was fairly sure.

John blinked. “Like—oh, you mean autistic?” He said it with no inflection of any kind, which was surprising. “Oh, gee. Years, Sherlock. Quite a long time. Why?”

“But how—who told you?” Sherlock said. “It wasn’t in my records. I made sure of it, a long time ago. And only two people knew, and neither one of them—”

John shook his head. “No one told me, Sherlock. I figured it out on my own.” He gave a wry grin. “Doctor, remember? And I _did_ live with you, after all.”

“That means nothing,” Sherlock said. “I am very, very careful in my behaviours. I give no tangible visual or verbal cues. I don’t stim—”

“Yeah, you do,” John said, raising his eyebrows. “You always have.”

“No, I taught myself—” Sherlock began, somewhat offended now.

John wordlessly held up one hand and ran his index finger along the edge of his thumb, over and over. Sherlock could feel the blood drain from his face.

“That’s the main one,” John said calmly. “You do that when you’re agitated—usually _really_ agitated. ‘S how I know when we need to take a break. There are others, but you do that one the most.”

Sherlock was blinking again. John took that as a cue to keep on listing his evidence.

“Then there’s the sock index. I mean, yeah, some people who are just really meticulous might do that, but it fits in with the rest,” John continued. “You get fascinated by things, and learn everything about them, and tell me about it, in detail. You have aversions to certain textures and tastes, to the point that they’ll literally make you ill. You hate tags in your clothes, and when you have bad days you wear things inside-out. You’re hypersensitive; bright lights and loud noises are a problem pretty often. I always figured your migraines were linked to that. When you’re upset you struggle to make eye contact. And, um, you can sometimes find tiny things really distracting, to the point where it distresses you enough that you can’t handle it.” He stopped and gave Sherlock an apologetic look before continuing. “And, well, you’re really, really bad at reading peoples’ emotional state sometimes, or picking up on social cues.”

Sherlock’s face was now flaming, based on the heat he felt glowing in his cheeks. “Anything else?” he asked stiffly, mostly to give himself time to formulate a true response.

John thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I think that’s most of it.”

“But you chose not to share your knowledge with me?” Sherlock said. He was studiously ignoring the scald of mortification he felt at being exposed. That his so-diligent efforts at concealment, honed over many years, had proven so inadequate.

John blinked again. “Why would I? I mean, it’s not really what you’d call relevant, day to day, except when you’re having an issue. And that doesn’t happen all that often.”

And Sherlock found himself at something of a loss. Most of his concern, obviously, had rested with John’s knowledge of his autism, in and of itself, and who had shared that knowledge with him in the face of Sherlock’s violent opposition. To find that the answer to that question was “no one”, and that Sherlock had been labouring under a false impression of safety all this time was…there wasn’t really a word for that.

“Why did you never say _anything_?” Sherlock finally managed, then coughed painfully. John brought him water, waiting while he drank it, and bumped up the morphine a slot or two.

“I, um, I guess I didn’t realize you cared,” John said. “I mean, it’s clear now that you do, though I’m not sure why. And, well, based on things you’ve said in the past, I gather your childhood and teen years weren’t a lot of fun, so I assumed that being autistic was part of that, and didn’t want to bring up things that might still be painful.”

Sherlock coughed again—it still felt like being stabbed, but the heightened morphine was seeping in to take the edge off. “I’ve deleted most of it,” he said, which was at least partially true. “But I would think my current reluctance for it being common knowledge would be obvious. Can you imagine Donovan’s reaction, for example?”

“Donovan is a twat,” John said. “Not always, but more often that she should be. Wouldn’t use her as my acid test if I were you.”

Sherlock shook his head angrily. “You’re being intentionally obtuse. I am already considered a ‘freak’. I refuse to allow people to add ‘defective’ to that list.”

“Autism doesn’t make you _defective_ , Sherlock. It makes you _different_ ,” John said. “And yeah, I’m sure when you were a child it made things exceptionally difficult for you, because kids can be dicks. And you have to work really, really hard to deal with things other people just ignore or never even notice. So that sucks, and it’s not fair. But, you know, I also always figured that it also went a long way towards making you who you are. The hyperawareness, the pattern recognition, that exceptional focus—that’s really special, you know? And I’ll lay you money that comes from your being on the Spectrum.”

This time Sherlock was the one with his mouth open. He closed it with a snap as soon as he realized. But the, well, _shock_ that led to that reaction remained. Because Sherlock had never, _ever_ , considered that. He had always assumed his talents came from his intellect, pure and simple; that his Holmes/Vernet genetics blessed him with his preternatural skills.

Sherlock wished to consider these intriguing possibilities in more depth, but was interrupted by the sleepiness that washed in with the tide of morphine. His eyes fluttered closed on their own, as John settled into the chair.

When Mycroft arrived the next afternoon, Sherlock had a request. “A tablet,” he said. “Lightweight, touch screen. I can rest it on the tray table so I don’t have to hold it, and the table tilts so I can see. That way all I have to do is use my left hand to navigate.” His “present” dutifully arrived two hours later.

John wasn’t enthusiastic, since he knew how virtually everything exhausted Sherlock. But at least it might relieve the crippling boredom, which John knew would become an increasing problem as the detective spent more time awake and helpless in his cot. John sighed and plugged the tablet in to charge.

It was the slowest research Sherlock had ever done. First, he had to tailor it to moments when John was out of the room; typically, that meant the brief period when Sherlock’s morning “bath” was completed by the nursing staff (since John was ridiculously concerned about Sherlock’s nonexistent modesty, and always spent that time getting tea). There was a similar window at the end of the time when the respiratory therapist came for her daily torture session, though he didn’t always have the energy to do anything during that period. In all, perhaps twenty minutes per day total. Under normal circumstances Sherlock would have been howling at the limitation; as it was, he could rarely manage to manipulate the tablet and pay attention for more than five minutes at a stretch without needing a long rest.

After the issue with time came the problem with concentration—or rather the lack thereof. Morphine had always wreaked havoc on the functioning of the Mind Palace, and now was no exception. Part of his research time, then, had to include painfully typing his findings one-handed into a blank document for storage. It was maddening, but necessary if he was to come to any real conclusions.

The final consideration was John. The doctor had been delighted at being able to use the tablet, and felt free to borrow it while Sherlock slept (something Sherlock had agreed to with somewhat poor grace. He simply couldn’t think of a reason to say ‘no’). That meant that Sherlock also had to take care to delete his browser history at every turn. The last thing he wanted was John opening the tablet and finding himself on the last page visited.

All told, then, it was nearly a week after John’s revelations before Sherlock had completed his research and was ready to evaluate his results. Sherlock spent his “free” time that morning, after his nurses finished their cleaning routine, re-reading the cumulative document he’d put together, considering that research in light of his own nature and abilities, and ordering his thoughts accordingly. By the time John returned, he was ready.

“Autism has been scientifically notated as conferring special skills to some on the Spectrum,” he announced.

John blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Like I told you last week.” He frowned. “Have you been worrying about that all this time?”

Sherlock frowned in his turn. “I wasn’t _worrying_ ,” he said stiffly. He needed to nip such thinking in the bud.

“No, of course not. I misspoke,” John said, with that long-suffering look that let Sherlock know he was being humoured.

“I have undertaken some research, in light of your conjectures,” Sherlock continued, concentrating on wrestling this presentation back under control. “I had thought to share my findings.”

John sat down and pasted an attentive look on his face. It was slightly overdone but acceptable. “Of course,” he said, waving his hand for Sherlock to continue.

“I surveyed a number of websites, both those geared to medical professionals and to the lay public. I was surprised to find that those geared to the average reader were much more informative that I would have expected,” Sherlock began. “The medical sites tended to be more concerned with the biochemical and neurological differences for those with autism; the ‘popular’ sites dealt with the practicalities.”

“’Why’ versus ‘what,” John said, nodding. “And I’m thinking ‘what’ is more your area of interest.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he said, “though I had to wade through many pages of pseudo-science as well. Diets and exercises that were purported to ‘cure’ autism, as if it’s a digestive complaint.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that out there too,” John said. “Including the loons that think getting kids their vaccine jabs ‘cause’ it.”

“Morons,” Sherlock said, before realizing he was getting sidetracked again. “But those areas weren’t the thrust of my research, and I did find reputable pages to rely on. I concentrated on relating their offerings to my own experience, and found a startling amount of correlation.” He pushed the tablet towards John, who took it carefully. At this point Sherlock could finally recite the list from memory.

“’Learning to read at an early age’—Mycroft taught me when I was 4, though I understand I could recognize some words prior to that,” Sherlock said. “It was difficult to be sure, since I didn’t speak until that age. ‘Memorising and learning information quickly’—well, that one’s fairly obvious, I would think.”

John grinned and nodded.

“’May excel in science, engineering and mathematics’—again, obvious, though certainly the mathematics could also come from my mother,” Sherlock continued. “‘Having an extraordinary memory’. ‘Being precise and detail-oriented’. ‘Having an excellent sense of direction’. ‘Ability to concentrate for long periods of time when motivated.’ ‘A drive for perfection’. And, finally, ‘a capability for alternate problem-solving’.” He looked at John expectantly.

His friend was smiling. “Yup, that’s pretty much you,” he said. “A lot of the best parts of you, when it comes to the Work.”

“As I thought,” Sherlock said, relieved that John saw this in the same way as he did.

John, though, was still looking on expectantly. After a solid minute of silence he spoke. “So, what’s your big conclusion? Where did all that research and cogitation take you? Still feel like autism makes you ‘defective’?” The latter was said with scrupulous rolling of eyes, to ensure that Sherlock knew he was joking. Sherlock often found that helpful, though he would never admit it.

“No,” Sherlock said, with a certain amount of satisfaction. “It apparently makes me ‘me’”. He could feel his face slide into a smile, and didn’t try to fight it. This time, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the Autism Facts Sherlock cites come directly from the webpages of a host of autism awareness pages.  
> *Gabe is an OC who appears in several of my fics. He's Sherlock's first partner while he is Away, and is introduced in Scheherezade.


End file.
